


Only Light, Only Joy

by silraen



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Art in the time of corona, F/M, Headcanon, Here follows what could have been a fleeting moment, Love, May/December Relationship, May/September Relationship, Midsummer, Midsummer’s Day, Midsummer’s Night, Romance, Third Age, between Aragorn and Arwen on their wedding night, bookverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silraen/pseuds/silraen
Summary: Here follows a fleeting moment between Aragorn and Arwen on the night of their wedding.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	Only Light, Only Joy

Aragorn’s booted footsteps were nearly soundless as he strode alone down one of the many corridors of the Citadel's west wing. 

He had developed the habit to tread with care over the long years living abroad, when his very life depended upon his ability to ghost unseen through the wilds. 

Even though the Enemy was now vanquished, and he had at last come out of exile to be crowned Elessar of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, never again to range with the threat of the Eastern Shadow looming menacingly, he doubted his tendency for stealth would ever leave him. 

The thought brought a wry twitch to his lips as he rounded a corner, nearing his destination. 

Not for the first time in recent weeks, he wondered if his furtive feet would ever become used to the feel of the cold stone of civilization instead of fields layered with rainbows of wildflowers, or perilously jagged mountain terrain, or forested ground covered with pockets of thickets and dense carpets of fallen leaves. 

At last the man slowed his pace, coming to a halt before a heavy mahogany door decorated with swirling inlays of onyx and ivory.

Reaching forward, he rested a weathered hand gently on the smooth surface, fingertips thoughtfully rubbing along part of the intricate design of Nimloth the Fair, the White Tree of Númenor.

The droll amusement in his countenance bled away. 

Perhaps, he mused, the real question was...would he ever find himself at ease in this ancient city of his forebears as he had upon secret roads winding through the wilderness?

Even though he dwelt in the Citadel and was actively overseeing the rebuilding of Minas Tirith for nigh on two months, a part of himself still felt a stranger, especially when he was within the King’s Hall. 

And yet everything in the White City, from the recovering gardens newly blossoming to the very foundations of sheer pale stone, sang to his soul in a way no other place in Middle-earth ever had. 

Not even Lothlórien, fairest of all the realms and dearest to his heart. 

Time, he reaffirmed silently to himself. 

In time, he would come to discern the melody of Minas Tirith as deeply as he understood the wilds of the world. 

In time, he would learn how to harmonize with it in all he would attempt to accomplish. 

By striving through the inevitable trials he would undergo governing the Reunited Kingdoms, he would become intimately attuned with each, and the cities therein. 

Aragorn counted himself as exceptionally fortunate in that he would not embark upon this noble endeavor alone.

As the thought came to him, he was drawn back to the present. 

His gray eyes brightly shone, the faint lines around them crinkling with joy. 

Curling his hand, he politely rapped his scarred knuckles against the polished stonework gleaming in the lanternlight on either side of him. 

Moments later, the door opened wide.

“My lord,” an elf maiden across the threshold sank into a deep, graceful curtsy, “your lady queen is within.”

 _“Hannon allen,”_ Aragorn graciously responded in her Sindarin tongue. It was his way of reciprocating her respectful courtesy for speaking in Westron, the language of his people quite unfamiliar to her. 

He was awarded with a slow smile of acknowledgment as she rose to stand upright once more. “Goodnight, lord.” 

With a swift swish and quiet rustle of velvet, she was gone. 

His gaze then flickered to the balcony where a lithe, feminine figure was silhouetted against the stream of stars blazing in the sky. 

Not alone, he thought to himself, delighted anticipation swelling his heart as he eased further into the room. 

He was greatly pleased with the changes wrought in this chamber over such a short period of time. 

Long years had it been in disuse, but no one would know it now. 

The white stone walls and floor had been scrubbed until they glowed as pale and bright as the full moon.

Thick rugs woven in luxurious colors had been brought in from various corners of the keep to lay stacked artistically beneath the canopied bed, as if they’d always been there. 

Magnificent floral garlands of sunset hues were draped atop the translucent gauze drifting around the bed's four posters. 

From them, a light and faintly sweet fragrance akin to honeysuckle permeated the room, mingling with the Midsummer breeze wafting in from the balcony.

From each corner and shelf along the walls, freestanding candelabras and small beeswax candles glimmered, casting the entire chamber in a sultry, golden haze. 

Aragorn passed through it, as if in a dream, and reached for the outstretched hands of Arwen. 

Grasping her silken fingers tightly, he brought the backs of her palms to his lips before lifting his eyes to hers. 

_“Hiril vuin,”_ he greeted huskily. 

Her smile was radiant. _“Hîr vuin.”_

“You are beautiful.” Captivated, his gaze swept lovingly over her. 

His queen was no longer clothed in the silver and pearl splendor of her wedding raiment from earlier that afternoon. Rather, a simple yet exquisite gown of white silk and ivory lace flowed over her figure like water to pool in gossamer ripples at her bare feet. 

Instead of being pulled away from her fair features by the shining circlet signifying her royalty, her abundant tresses were loose and cascaded in a dark river over her shoulders and down her back. 

His teeth gleamed suddenly in the night. 

Charmed, he released a white hand to lightly touch one of the many flowers adorning her hair just as stars arrayed the sky above them. 

“Niphredil?” His expression was at once both wondering and admiring as it lingered upon her brow where most of the snowdrop blooms were woven into her locks. “Never before have the flowers of Lothlórien traveled so far south.”

 _“Iston.”_ A faint blush had risen in her cheeks under his ardent glance. “It has long been a custom in the Golden Wood for its brides to wear them.”

Even as she finished speaking, the light in her eyes sobered as she realized, just as he did, she was likely to be the last Lórien maid to ever uphold this tradition in Middle-earth. 

For with the destruction of the One Ring, the power of the Three was ended. And thus, so was the influence, guidance, and sage rule of the elves. 

Soon, most of her closest kin would depart from the western shores to sail the Straight Road to Aman, the Blessed Realm...never to return.

Not for the first time, empathetic concern for Arwen filled Aragorn’s heart. 

Before he could murmur gentle words of solace, she offered him a small, composed smile and gave the barest shake of her head, deterring such a conversation from happening. 

There would be a place and time for such sorrowful talk. But it was not to be this eve, which was first and foremost a night of elated celebration long yearned for.

Briefly his hand tightened around hers in a silent promise to grant her wish. 

Feeling the shift in his grip, her eyes flicked knowingly to his. “They are a gift from my foremother,” she continued reverently, countenance warming once again. “As is a small box of their seeds.”

Lady Galadriel’s gift was one of great significance, Aragorn thought to himself. 

It was to serve as a remembrance of Arwen’s kin, acutely bittersweet though it was. And it was to soothe the ache of her homesickness, for if the seeds took to the soil of Gondor, then she would always have a connection to Lothlórien, the enchanted woodland of her youth. 

“A precious gift indeed, Undómiel,” the man asseverated. “The Citadel is honored to provide for the white stars of Cerin Amroth.”

She inclined her head at that. 

“If you approve, we could plant them in the gardens of the Houses of Healing,” he suggested, gesturing below to the long swathe of aged trees, young saplings, and newly-budding flowers curving around the city’s entire sixth level. 

As Arwen turned to look appraisingly down at where he pointed, Aragorn moved to stand beside her, wrapping an arm tenderly around her waist. When she leaned into his side, he affectionately pressed his cheek to hers. 

“Or....” he mused aloud, “we could sow them in the small, private garden below the suite of rooms to our left.”

He could feel her long lashes fluttering against his skin as she followed his line of sight. 

“Everything yonder is being restored, or rebuilt,” he explained the rigging and scaffolding barely visible against the velvet night. 

“The King’s House,” she murmured. 

Once fully reconstructed, those generous chambers would be for she and Aragorn and their children, as they had been for the descendants of the Faithful over an Age ago. 

“And the Queen’s Garden,” his warm breath tickled the pointed shell of her ear. 

“The foliage appears rather wild and overgrown, does it not?” she remarked, spying the untamed brambles and stubbornly persistent weeds contesting for space with the neglected flowers native to this land. “Poor things,” she crooned her pity for the struggling blooms. 

“Alas, they have long been missing a queen to tend them.”

“Indeed.” The pearlescent light of the moon glanced off the delicate planes and soft angles of her features as she slowly turned toward him. “But now she is here, and they shall want for nothing.” 

And what of you, my lady? 

The question, which had long gnawed at his certainty, effervesced to the forefront of his thoughts and seeped into what he asked next. 

“Once the bracken is cleared, think you they of Elvendom will thrive here?”

For a lengthy moment, Arwen stood as silent and dignified as a slender, white birch. Then, “The flowers of Lothlórien, and the kingdom of Doriath before it was lost to the sea, shall flourish in Gondor and Arnor, Elessar.”

There was something quietly new in her low tone of voice that gave the man pause. 

Did she perceive the underlying intent of his question?

As he looked searchingly upon her face, he was struck once again by her beauty. 

Ageless it was, for although two score years had passed since they plighted their troth upon Cerin Amroth, the passage of time had not touched her flesh with lines or the wealth of her midnight hair with frost. 

Only the arresting depths of her clear eyes revealed the long years she had dwelt in the world.

It was a strange thing, for though Aragorn knew where and when they were, a part of him almost expected to see a wild garden of silken niphredil at their feet instead of slabs of hard stone. 

Stranger still was the sharp pang of regret suddenly reverberating throughout his heart. 

Because of their union, Arwen of Imladris and Lórien, daughter of the undying forest, would never again walk or dance with careless abandon beneath the golden boughs of the ancient mallorns of Middle-earth, or those of Aman. 

Alas, they had spoken of this before. 

Long had been their conversation that eve, every word laden with grave practicality, with poignant hope. 

But love, breathtakingly marvelous, had threaded through every thoughtful question and answer, through every meaningful glance and caress. 

It was for their love she had turned away from the path and fate of her people and had cleaved to him. 

But would their mutual devotion truly be enough for her to live a life of fulfillment and happiness?

“You say niphredil will flourish in the Reunited Kingdom,” Aragorn finally said to preface sharing the burden weighing on his mind. ”Will their lady?"

Her beautiful, perspicacious eyes pierced his. “After all our years of betrothal, Estel...and enduring far more than what the lays will ever tell to attain what we promised one another today...you doubt it?" 

“I doubt not your heart, _vanimelda,”_ he clarified quietly. “Never have I doubted that. Although, I wonder if you will be content here, in the land of men...in stone cities constructed upon nature, not within it.”

Arwen’s countenance was grave. “Minas Tirith and Annúminas are not like Imladris or Caras Galadhon,” she slowly conceded. “And yet, in the moment I made my vows to you today,” her soft tone strengthened, “all of Gondor and Arnor became mine.” 

The wisdom of centuries weighted her gaze as it penetrated through to his very soul. 

“They became mine as the homes of my youth and maidenhood were mine. To nurture, as I can. To love, as I will.”

Overwhelmed by the burgeoning intensity of his solemn humility and fervent joy, Aragorn bowed his head. “You honor me greatly, Undómiel.”

Suddenly he was aware of the touch of her fingertips beneath his chin, a gentle command that he lift his head. 

Her smiling eyes were farseeing, luminous. “I have divined a long sweep of many decades to come. They arose like the dawning of the sun and stretched out before us as an incandescent, starlit road, glistering through the shades of time. I did not espy its end.” 

As she spoke, her fingers drifted down to the Elessar glowing auspiciously around his neck. With great care, she placed her hand lovingly over it, and her ethereal gaze lifted to his once more. 

“We will have wondrous years together, Aragorn.”

In that moment, the last vestiges of incertitude troubling his heart vanished. 

Deeply moved by her prophetic words, Aragorn reverently touched the point between his brows before cupping her face in his careworn hands. 

_“Le melin,”_ he told her, voice rasping with his abiding devotion. 

_“Mell nín,”_ came her soft reply as he leaned closer, his lips caressing hers in a tender kiss. 

Full of loving regard it was, and her sweetly ardent response to him reflected that her heart thrummed in mutual accord.

Slowly his palms melted down her pale neck, stray wisps of her dark tresses tangling around his fingers as she shifted closer against him. 

The heat of his desire long tempered was kindled. With gallant care he indulged the passional flame unfurling between them, its scintillating warmth permeating within and without. 

Stirred, he at last lifted his head, brow coming to rest gingerly against hers. 

It appeared she was as breathless as he, for her white breast rose and fell in swift succession, her pulse coyly flickering against his thumb. 

_“Nin lithiach,”_ he husked, brushing his nose against hers, slitted eyes gleaming when he saw a winsome smile curve her mouth. 

Moving so he could see her clearly, Aragorn reached up, callused fingers tracing her rosy cheek. _“Arwen vanimelda...”_ his impassioned gaze, dark and inviting, flicked to the goldenlit chamber before settling upon her face, _“...aphado nin?”_

 _“Gerich veleth nín.”_ The demurely vivacious smile she bestowed upon him dazzled his eyes and thrilled his heart. “And with my love,” she continued in Westron, “all that I am.” 

He lifted a reverential hand, offering it to her. 

Unhesitatingly, she slid her fingers into his. 

As the moon smoothly wended its way through the balmy Midsummer night, and the shimmering stream of stars continued to wheel and blaze high above in the heavens, Elessar and Undómiel knew only light, only joy.

**Author's Note:**

> To those of you who stumbled upon this piece and read it all the way through (or even if you read just a little!), thank you very much for reading ☺️
> 
> ....And if you wandered into this Lord of the Rings one-shot from The Blacklist/Lizzington fandom and made it through, thank you for that! Haha ☺️ It’s a bit challenging to jump from writing in a present-day style to writing in a medieval, Tolkienesque way...but I do enjoy a creative challenge.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The artwork found in this work of fanfiction was illustrated for me by my friend Kris of IG: kris_and_jen. Please do not use or repost without my permission. Thank you!
> 
> * * *
> 
> **English meanings for Elvish words and phrases:**  
>  _• Hannon allen_ \- Thank you  
>  _• Hiril vuin_ \- Beloved lady  
>  _• Hîr vuin_ \- Beloved lord  
>  _• Iston_ \- I know  
>  _• vanimelda_ \- beautiful and beloved  
>  _• Le melin_ \- I love you  
>  _• Mell nín_ \- My beloved  
>  _• Nin lithiach_ \- You enchant me  
>  _• aphado nin_ \- come with me  
>  _• Gerich veleth nín_ \- You have my love  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **English meanings for Elvish names of people:**  
>  _• Arwen_ \- Noble Maiden; it was said she was considered to be the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar, resembling Lúthien of the First Age  
>  _• Undómiel_ \- Evenstar; Arwen’s _epessë_ (Elvish for “after-name”), an honorific, public name given to her by her people  
>  _• Elessar_ \- Elfstone; the Stone of Eärendil that was green as the leaves but had the light of the Sun trapped within it; when the Fellowship passed through Lothlórien, it was given to Aragorn by Lady Galadriel as wedding gift from the family of the bride to the groom, foretelling his marriage to Arwen. It was worn by Aragorn ever after, and caused him to also be given the name of King Elessar by the people of Minas Tirith. He adopted it as his royal name, as Gandalf foretold.  
>  _• Estel_ \- Hope; the name Aragorn was given in his youth before his birth name and royal Númenórean lineage were revealed to him by Lord Elrond, who fostered him  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **English meanings for Elvish names of places:**  
>  _• Imladris_ \- Rivendell; the house of Lord Elrond Half-Elven, “a refuge for the weary and the oppressed, and a treasury of good counsel and wise lore” _Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age_  
>  _• Lothlórien_ \- Lórien in Blossom, Dream Land, or Dreamflower; the realm of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, “the heart of Elvendom on earth”  
>  _• Caras Galadhon_ \- moated fortress of the trees, or Galadhon’s fortress; the great city built in the undying mallorn trees where the Galadhrim, the elves of Lórien, dwelt  
>  _• Cerin Amroth_ \- Amroth’s Mound; a hill in Lórien blanketed with elanor and niphredil; it was here that Aragorn and Arwen were betrothed, and where Arwen surrendered her life in the year 121 of the Fourth Age; “and there is her green grave, until the world is changed, and all the days of her life are utterly forgotten by men that come after, and elanor and niphredil bloom no more east of the Sea.” Appendix A, _Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Here Follows a Part of The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen_
> 
> * * *
> 
> Major shoutout to those blessed souls out there translating English into all the dialects of Elvish (and vice-versa) for those of us who don’t know how. You are doing the Lord’s work.
> 
> The (all Sindarin, I think? I was trying to be consistent) Elvish translations I used were found at:  
>  • tolkiengateway.net  
>  • tara.istad.org  
>  • realelvish.net  
>  • councilofelrond.com
> 
> The brief histories included were pulled from tolkiengateway.net (an excellent resource!)


End file.
